Assassin's Creed: Forgiven
by Demalia
Summary: It's been 15 years since Armande traded wild freedom for Dahlia and their family. Some things, he has learned very well. Others, he still hasn't quite gotten the gist of.


Heat from the June day outside hung in sheets throughtout the house, thicker in the parlor, less so in the back rooms. People were everywhere; Armande de Seville had been in much, much larger crowds, but never in his own home, and not for many years.

Congratulations and greetings followed him everywhere. If he had walked through so much good-will fifteen years ago, he chuckled to himself, amused, he certainly would have assumed it was a trap. But he wasn't the one falling into the trap today.

"Armande."

He looked over; Eliane was calling. The years hadn't been unkind to her; still, her once-dark hair was turning quite gray, and her frown lines had grown deeper. She beckoned to him, and he followed, suspicion of her long since dead and buried.

"There's someone here to see you. Waiting in the kitchen."

"Who is it?"

"She wouldn't say," Eliane replied, but her eyes told a different story. Armande's mouth twisted in a frown of its own, and he walked through his living room, towards the kitchen door. On his way across the floor, he caught sight of himself in the great mirror that hung against the wall. Silver laced through his once-black hair, and his beard and moustache were peppered with it. Unwelcome wrinkles had finally set in, framing his eyes and mouth and lining his forehead in the faint stripes. He was, after all, past sixty, but at least he could still walk unaided and unstooped.

The kitchen was a mess of food and servants, and it took a moment for Armande to find his visitor. He spotted a hooded woman in the back, face invisible. The moment he saw her, it seemed, she glided out the door, closing it silently behind herself.

Dread and curiosity warred in Armande as he followed her out, dodging through the chaos until he was safely through the door and found himself in the relative quiet of the yard. In the back, preparations were well underway; a dozen conversations blended until a dull roar was all that was discernable. But here, at the side of the house, there was peace and the sweeping green of early-summer grass under shade trees.

Beneath one such tree, the woman had stopped, facing him. Hesitantly, she pulled down her hood.

Armande froze. "Jacqueline?"

His sister smiled warmly, if tiredly. "Who else?"

Armande crossed the last few yards between them and caught his elder sister in a bear hug. He hadn't seen her in over forty years; he barely recognized her. He had certainly never seen her in a dress. But there were some things, as he had learned in the past decade and a half, that the heart doesn't forget.

"My, haven't you grown affectionate," she chuckled as he set her down. "I never would have guessed it."

"The last few years of my life have been good to me," he answered, "perhaps too good; I'm growing sentimental."

"Not that!" Jacqueline scoffed. She looked up at him, and he knew what she was seeing; like he was, Jacque was comparing the young person she had known with the old one she saw now. For her, the years had clearly been hard. Her skin was tanned and freckled, wrinkled from much time in the sun, and a messy scar disfigured the left side of her neck. Armande brushed his fingers over it gently.

"What happened?"

"I could ask the same of you," she raised an eyebrow. "But not today. Today, I have little time to stop. I'm supposed to be in Jamestown next week."

"For what?"

"I'm meeting with the Assassin's guild. I have decided to live here; they have need of old people like me, and I wish to be closer to my family."

"How maternal," Armande smirked.

Jacqueline lifted her chin and smirked back. "And here I thought you cleaned out that smart mouth of yours."

"Never."

"Good. When I visit again, I would hate to be bored."

"Do visit again, when possible," Armande agreed, hugging his sister again. "There is much to catch up on."

"Armande?"

Armande and Jacqueline looked over at the same time. Leverett had come a short way across the lawn towards them; the concern and suspicion on his face melted into shock when he saw who Armande spoke to. His mouth opened and closed, and he glanced at Armande, then back to Jacqueline.

For her part, Jacqueline said nothing, but a slow, achingly sweet smile spread over her face.

"Leverett," she greeted. "It has been a long time."

"Seventeen years," he agreed.

"You two know each other?" Armande observed blandly.

"I was just telling Armande that I must go immediately to the Assassin's guild in Jamestown," she repeated, moving away from Armande towards Leverett. Armande watched in confusion.

"Jamestown?" Leverett asked. "If you can wait until the day is out, I'll go with you.""No, no," Jacqueline waved him off. She sighed, smiling at him still. "I must ride as fast as my horse can take me; this detour has cost me as it is. But I'll be back, soon enough." To Armande's shock, she threw her arms around Leverett's neck and hugged him tightly. Pulling away, she rested a hand on Leverett's cheek lovingly.

"I'll see you soon," she repeated. And, with a laugh that was almost a cackle, "You look so much like your uncle!"

Leverett laughed with her, as if they shared some joke that Armande was excluded from. He waited, irritable, growing more impatient with their antics the longer he had to wait for them to subside.

"Expect me," Jacqueline said again, and walked away. She looked back before she rounded the corner of the house, and then was gone.

"What was that about?" Armande snapped.

"Maybe I'll tell you someday," Leverett teased, sticking his hands in his pockets and walking towards the back, still chuckling. Armande bristled; doubtless, Leverett would play this little jest up as much as he could. He had, after all, spent the last fifteen years the butt of all Armande's jokes.

Still confused, and fuming with aggravation for that confusion, Armande went back in the house, through the front door instead of the kitchen one, and continued to his original destination.

He slipped through the door to the front parlor, perhaps the most deserted room on the ground floor.

Here, his son was fretted over by his quietly thrilled mother. Dahlia had never discarded her careful, stoic habits but they had thinned over the years like overworn fabric until she was no longer the stone column she had once been. Or maybe, just maybe, Armande knew her like the back of his hand, and it was just him who could read her from across the room. His ire faded when he saw them, and a grin snaked over his face.

When the parlor door snapped closed, Dahlia and Leandre looked over and smiled to see him. Dahlia was dressed up for the occaision, shining in a flowery, full-skirted dress that hugged her still-perfect curves. Perfect, at least, to Armande; he didn't give a damn about it, but he knew it would upset Dahlia if he ever mentioned that her body, as his had, was aging to catch up. Well-carved laugh lines creased again as she met him across the floor and wrapped her arms around his waist. She stretched up to kiss him on the cheek.

"No harsh words," she whispered in his ear. Her feet rested on the ground again, and she left one arm around him as they both turned to appraise Leandre.

Leandre de Seville was carefully groomed and dressed for his wedding day.

"I think I need to check in on the guests," Dahlia commented, backing towards the door with a sly grin. Before she reached it, however, the door to the parlor burst open and a storm of small limbs and laughter rolled in.

Armande's oldest daughter reached him first, being taller and stronger than her younger sister and brother. The other two were not far behind.

"When can I get married, Father?" Abigail asked bluntly, with the smart-alec smirk she had inherited from her father.

Armande's stomach twisted at the very thought. "Ask your mother."

Abigail laughed, assuming he was joking. She looked exactly like Dahlia had at her age, which made Armande's blood run cold, as it always did. He forced a smile and hugged his daughter tightly. Dahlia had already gathered up the youngest, Gabriella, in one arm and had taken the hand of their younger son, Caleb, with the other.

"Later, Abby," Dahlia answered, nodding her head towards the door. "You can't get married on the same day as your brother- out with you!"

Abigail gave Armande once last hug and followed Dahlia out the door; at fifteen, she was still somewhat childish, taking after Armande at that age. No, he sighed. Not taking after me. Anyone else, but not me. As these thoughts passed through his head, Dahlia seemed to read them on his face. The barest hint of sympathy darkened her smile, and she nodded her eyes toward their eldest son as she pulled the door shut.

Alone with Leandre, Armande could feel the tension rise. He sighed and turned around, hands behind his back, and stood before the boy he had met fifteen years past.

"Today's the big day," Armande said with a click of his tongue. He raised his eyebrows at Leandre. "Nervous?"

Leandre patted down his vest again, chuckling. "Nervous, yes."

Armande nodded. "Do you remember what I told you about nerves?"

"I do," Leandre admitted, his smile dimming. "They'll keep you breathing. Your nerves are your friends; if you don't listen to them, they can't save your life."

"Indeed."

The conversation dropped off at that, both Seville's staring at opposite walls.

Leandre broke the silence first. "Father, I know you don't like her-"

"It's not that I don't like her."

"You think she's-not good enough, or something-"

"Quite the contrary. Miss Victoria is quite lovely, and less silly than your sister, at least."

Leandre stopped, frustrated. He exhaled, annoyed at having to spell things out for his coy father.

"You don't like that she isn't an Assassin."

Armande's silence was telling. Leandre took a deep breath, calming the temper he had recieved from Armande himself. "One does not have to be an Assassin to be worthy, Father."

It was a discussion they had had before, but it was not what Armande had in mind. Without raising his voice, he replied as calmly as if he had been asked directions to the harbor.

"Outside this room, the front door is less than ten steps away. Outside that, our stable is around the side of the house; no one will be there with all the commotion in the garden. Thomas might be out there, but God knows he won't say anything. You can saddle a horse, ride off, and be halfway to Philadelphia by nightfall."

Leandre stared, his confusion dissolving into fury. Before he could speak, Armande cut him off.

"If you care for her, respect her, or love her at all, you will be honest with yourself!" Armande exclaimed, still hushed. "A promise never made is far better than one broken- if you have any doubts, any at all, walk away! Now!"

The rage that had begun to build in Leandre's eyes vanished. His son stared at Armande, this time in shock.

"I-" Leandre started lamely. "I can't do that."

"Why not?" Armande demanded. "True, it'll hurt her, but better hurt her than ruin her. Someday, when you stand at the start of a road to nowhere and you long to see the end, you'll remember your wife, your children. If regret is the only thing you will feel on that day, end it now."

"I can't- because I love her," Leandre replied.

Armande examined his son's eyes; never had he so desperately searched for a lie. But he saw none.

"Love isn't all you expect," Armande went on, calmer. He sighed. "Time takes a tax on you, on her, on everything there is between you. Today, you could never imagine hurting her. But time... it has a way of changing a man."

He fell silent, waiting for some flicker of understanding from Leandre. His son stared at the window for a long time; at first, Armande thought he might be seeing that road, might be feeling already the guilty longing for freedom.

And then Leandre clapped Armande on the shoulder, a half a grin on his face.

"You would know better than any other man what time can do," Leandre said. "But you, also, should know better than I do how it's hard to see how things will happen; I'll just have to take my chances. Take them, and hope that time is as kind to me as it was to you."

Leandre dropped his hand and stood, more of a man at this moment than Armande could ever remember. A sudden swell of pride choked any words Armande might have offered; he nodded to Leandre and walked toward the door.

"I expect you'll need to be out here soon," he commented as he left the parlor, leaving the door ajar for Leandre to follow.

Leandre de Seville lingered alone for a few minutes. He thought about what his father had said; somehow, somewhere deep down he knew that the desperate plea in Armande's unusual advice had been as much for himself as for Leandre. It had suddenly become clear to Leandre that in Victoria, his father saw Dahlia, and in Leandre, he saw himself. And at the couple's feet he saw the phantom of all he had done, all he had caused, and all that he wanted to stop from happening again.

Grinning, Leandre followed Armande out. What Armande de Seville didn't realize was that though time is cyclical, history does not have to be, and though what he had done could never be erased, it had, in fact, been long forgiven.

ument here...


End file.
